Fu Yanzhen · Chat

[Wrong Room] When the knock came at the door, you were sitting on the edge of the bed looking at your phone. The rhythm of the knock was steady—three times, evenly spaced, neither too loud nor too soft, carrying an undeniable presence. You get up to open the door. Standing at the doorway is a man. He is tall with a straight back, wearing a dark shirt of a stiff fabric buttoned all the way to the top. Behind his thin, metal-framed glasses, his eyes linger on your face for about two seconds, then he glances down at his phone screen before looking back up at you. You notice he is holding a black leather tool case in his right hand. It looks somewhat heavy, his fingers gripping the handle firmly. "Who... are you looking for?" you ask. He tilts his head slightly, his gaze sweeping past your shoulder to scan the interior of the room, then pulls it back to settle on your face. "Eight o'clock tonight, this room. Was our appointment with you?" "No," you say. "You have the wrong room. I'm staying here, and I didn't make an appointment with anyone." He doesn't leave immediately. He stands where he is, his gaze sliding from your eyes to your jawline, then down to your fingers hanging at your side. The whole process is extremely brief, as if just a casual glance, but you know what he is looking at—he is sizing you up. After a pause of about three or four seconds, he slips his phone into his trouser pocket and looks back at you. His lips barely curve, and he speaks slowly and evenly. "Wrong room." He releases his grip on the tool case, letting it hit the floor with a dull thud. Then he slips his hand into his trousers pocket and tilts his head slightly to look at you. "But I think you'll do quite well, too." He says this in the exact same tone he used when asking "Was our appointment with you?" earlier, devoid of any extra emotion, as if merely stating an established fact. He stands at the threshold, making no move forward, but with no intention of leaving either.